


Know My Name

by isnt_it_pretty



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Running Away, The Sleeping Sad Legend Paralogue Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-11-08 01:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20827370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isnt_it_pretty/pseuds/isnt_it_pretty
Summary: "If I thought I could have escaped, I would have tried. I'd leave behind House Gautier and the life of a nobleman...and anybody who knew I had a Crest."Sylvain runs away





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with another Sylvix AU, because apparently that's all I write. 
> 
> I have considered several different ways of doing this AU. Theif!Sylvain, Mercenery!Sylvain, but decided fuck it, he's always been a bit suicidal with an interest in Sreng.
> 
> This is going to be a shorter one, it was originally a one shot, but I preferred it as several shorter chapters
> 
> Hmu on discord at Canadeath#1368 if you want to talk Sylvix trash.

When Sylvain is sixteen, only a year after Glenn’s death, he writes a letter.

He doesn’t know why he does, doesn’t know why it's so important to him. Felix will never forgive him, no matter what reasons he may have... still, he can’t bring himself to leave without saying goodbye. Can’t be just another person to leave him behind, no rhyme or reason.

And so, Sylvain writes the letter. Pours his heart into the confession, the apology, the hope that Felix too, will escape the hand he’s been dealt. Find a way to live with the grief that’s become so paralyzing. He tells him he loves him.

He doesn’t say where he’s going. Knows that if he does, nothing will stop his father from hunting him down, and dragging him back. The blood of innocents would be on both their hands.

No, he can’t tell him.

_ By the time you receive this, I will be long gone. _

He signs the letter with his first name - no point using his last anymore - and has a messenger deliver it to the Fraldarius Estate. It’s urgent, he tells the man, and sends a prayer to The Goddess that he won’t be killed for it. There’s no way he could know what Sylvain plans.

Only when the man is riding into the evening light does Sylvain return to his room. He’s been planning this for months, sure of it for weeks. The letter is sent, there’s no backing out now. 

He wonders how long it will take his parents to notice he’s gone. Hopefully long enough to be halfway to Sreng, if not further, by the time they do.

It’s just after midnight, when Sylvain looks out over the balcony at the view he’s seen all his life. He thinks it should hurt more to leave it all behind, but it doesn’t. Well, aside from Felix, that part hurts, a lot. He knows it will hurt Felix, too, but love has never been enough. Never will be.

He climbs from the balcony, supplies in hand, and makes his way to the stables. The night air is brisk against his skin, but that’s all the better. People will be less likely to be out and about in such weather.

His horse, a beautiful black mare, is quiet when he enters, as if she understands the gravity of the situation. He saddles her up, and somehow manages to guide her to the road without any of the guards noticing. Or maybe they did, and assume he has good reason to be out so late. He is sixteen after all.

Either way, by the time dawn rises over the Gautier lands, Sylvain is long gone.

It’s easier to get the Sreng than he would have thought. Easier too, to find his way into their good graces.

The Sreng side of the mountains is a wasteland, desert heat draining him during the day, and freezing winds chiling him at night. At least he’s prepared for the latter of the two, and has enough supplies to last him.

It takes weeks until he’s far enough into Sreng to run into his first of the clans.

He’s half expecting them to kill him on sight. Surely his red hair is clue enough as to who he is. The son of the man who has killed countless of their people, the child of a house that has held Fodlan’s borders for 200 years. He belongs to the country that in recent decades invaded their lands, annexing the lower half of the peninsula. 

They don’t.

They make camp with him, pass around alcohol strong enough to make Sylvain’s head swim. They listen to his tale of love and loss, of being raised with a crest in a land that cares more for power than it does their people. His parents, who love his blood more than his body, more than his soul. His brother who would rather see him dead, than see him inherit. 

He travels with them for a time, learning their names and faces. The little girl who giggles when he smiles at her, instead of hiding like she had at first. The boy, in far too much of a hurry to grow up. To be a man who will join in the fighting with the rest of the clan. He meets the chief’s daughter, a girl three years younger than him that can put him on his ass faster than Felix ever could. Hears the stories and legends, learns things he never could have. Learns their antive tongue. 

Sometimes, when the darkness of the night seeps into his bones, he looks up at the darkness of the sky, and tries to remember what it looks like from home. Would his friend’s be looking at the same sky?

He meets other tribes and other people, gets passed around to tell stories, and teach them his style of fighting. These people, who were supposed to be his enemies, now turned friends. More of a family than he ever could have dreamed of.

Its two years after coming to them, at eighteen years old, that they take him to meet The Windcaller.

“He’s been told of you,” one man says as they ride. Well, Sylvain rides. Most of them fly. Bastards. “He’s curious, what a son of your house turned out to be.”

Sylvain isn’t sure what he’s expecting when he reaches the ruins, but it sure as fuck isn’t a goddamn _ dragon. _

“Ah,” it says, in a voice so odd it sounds almost human, but not quite. “So you would be the son of Gautier. I can smell the stench of your crest from here.”

He wonders, briefly, what kind of creature this must be, to be able to _ smell _ his crest. He knows it’s true, since nobody here knows he has one, or even what a crest _is._

“Sylvain,” he says, because he will not be defined by his blood, not here. Will not let himself fall victim to the crest that's pulsing through his veins, the one thing he has but never wanted. Refuses to be nothing but his father’s son among these people of whom are supposed to be evil. “My name is Sylvain.”

“Indeed it is,” The Windcaller replies. It moves towards him, great feet stomping. It’s wings stretch widely, intimidating. “Tell me, Sylvain,” the name sounds taunting coming from such a creature. “Do you wish to know the truth of the power that lies in your blood?”

Yet another surprise from this beast.

“Tell me,” it says without waiting for an answer. As if it already knows what he’ll say, what he’s always said. “What lies has my sister told you?”

There’s a lot of things he could say to that, but he isn’t sure which one would be correct. Not when the creature in front of him seems older, and more powerful than anything he has ever dreamed of.

“Are you the Immaculate One?” he finds himself asking, because he has to _ know _. He’s never heard of another dragon, and it seems like this creature knows more of Fodlan than any being of Sreng should.

The Windcaller only laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

And so Sylvain tells him. He tells him the story of Saint Seiros, of the Ten Elites and Nemesis. Of the Heroes Relics and Crests, gifts from the Goddess.

He ends up staying with The Windcaller. No, with Saint Macuil. The stories that fall from his lips answer questions Sylvain never knew he had. Stories about Nemesis, the man who stole the bones of Sothis and crafted the Sword of the Creator from them, who used it to slaughter the Goddess’ children. Their bones and viscera used to create the Heroes Relics. He’s told of Lady Rhea, of Saint Seiros, of the rage and hatred that used to plague her. Secrets that not even known to those of Sreng.

Why they were imparted on Sylvain, he never finds out, but he thinks it may be because of his crest. Whatever Macuil saw in him that first day, made him trust him enough to teach.

He learns magic, something he didn’t realize he was particularly good at until then. Used it to protect the ruins from bandits and thieves. 

It was two years later that a raiding party comes back with news of the war. Dimitri is dead. The good people of Sreng knew nothing other than that. Sylvain spent nights wondering if he could have changed it. Whatever happened, if he were there, would it have been different? He imagined his friends would be gone too, there’s no way they’d let Dimitri die alone.

“Do you plan on going back?” he’s asked. 

“I don’t know.”

He truly doesn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You cannot convince me that Sylvain's dad isn't shitty enough to have another kid, just for a crest (one that will have zero impact on the story).

When Felix, fourteen and angry, receives an urgent letter from Sylvain, he’s more than a little annoyed.

So annoyed really, that he left it on his dresser for an entire day before he finally gets around to ripping it open.

He reads it through four times before he’s finally able to comprehend what it means,

He doesn’t know what to do at first, doesn’t know how to react, but he can feel tears slipping from his eyes before he even realizes it. He wants to believe its fake, a stupid prank, but he knows it isn’t. Knows with every fiber of his being that if Sylvain sent this letter, it means he’s gone.

It must have been a maid who hears his sobs, because his father is there. So desperately wanting to comfort but not knowing the right words. He never does. 

Felix just hands him the stupid letter when he asks what’s wrong. Watches his face through blurred eyes as he reads it, sees the stunned expression.

He expects him to rush off, send a letter to the Margrave at once. He doesn’t. Instead, he sits next to Felix. Lets him cry into a pillow like the week Glenn died, only that time he had been alone.

When Felix wakes up, his father is gone, but the letter remains.

Ingrid is furious when she finds out. Dimitri looks like he’s been stabbed through the heart. Felix can’t quite decided which one he agrees with more.

Margrave Gautier sends out letters to every noble in the Kingdom, and probably half of those in the Empire and Alliance. No news ever comes back.

The search for Sylvain never really stops, and Felix wonders what it must be like to love a crest so much that he’d banish one son, and search desperately for the other, just to avoid losing it.

A year later, he sees Dimitri for the beast he is, The Boar Prince, and feels more alone than ever before.

It’s only eight months after, just over half a year before he’s supposed to leave for the Officers Academy (not with Sylvain, not like he always thought he would), that the Margrave announces his wife is pregnant again. 

The Lady Gautier isn’t a young thing anymore, and Sylvain’s birth was traumatic enough, so he’s heard. Felix finds himself wondering if she’ll survive. Doesn’t think he’ll be sad if she doesn’t. It’s not like the bitch has ever done anything for her children.

He goes to the Officers Academy, and spends all his time training, which honestly isn’t new. 

The Professor though, is.

She’s strong, and amazing with a sword. Felix isn’t sure he’s ever seen somebody move so quickly with a blade. So when she asks if he’ll join her house, The Golden Deer, he can see no reason to say no. 

Ingrid glares at him, but they hardly speak anymore anyways, not since they got into an argument about Sylvain, so he really sees no loss there. Dimitri tells him that there are no hurt feelings, and Felix tells him where he can put them even if there were.

It hurts when they have to go after The Lance of Ruin. Sylvain should be there, but he isn’t. At least Miklan still recognizes him. It would be a pity if he didn’t, considering he’s been waiting for  _ years _ to finally be able to put a sword through his gut. Finally make him pay for all the bruises Sylvain received from “falling”. All the “accidents” his best friend had as a child.

“You!” he screams, barely heard over the rain and fighting. The professor is yelling at him to stay back, to listen to her order, but something in Felix snaps. 

This is  _ his  _ fault, its all his fault. If Miklan hadn’t been such a shit head, maybe Sylvain would still be there. Maybe Sylvain would be insatiable and infuriating, but he’d be  _ there _ . Felix would know where he is, would know he’s safe. Wouldn’t have to keep his stupid goodbye letter in a drawer, next to Glenn’s spur, the last remains of the two most important people in his life.

Felix is no green fighter. He’s seen battle before. But he’s never lost his shit on the battlefield quite like this.

He runs Miklan through with his sword, and takes great pleasure from the bubbling pain coming from the other’s lungs as he does so.

And then Miklan turns into a monster. Fitting. An outside to match the in.

“Fuck you,” he tells the corpse, trying to ignore the way the red hair still looks like Sylvain’s. His class at least has the decency to pretend they don’t see him crying.

He’s the one to hand his father the Lance of Ruin, and makes a point of saying “Make sure to tell the Margrave that he’s killed both his sons over the ability to weild this stupid relic."

When Rodrigue Fraldarius goes to deliver the relic to his friend and ally, Felix finds himself sending a small prayer to the Goddess. He doesn’t really believe in her, but little Elena Gautier, motherless and only a couple months old, is going to need all the help she can get. He hopes she fairs better than her older brothers did, but doubts it.

Claude asks if he’s okay, and when Felix gives him a bullshit answer, he finds Ingrid and asks her. Felix guesses the story is enough to make even Claude somber, because he doesn’t bring it up again aside from to apologize for pestering him.

The entire class seems to make it their mission to cheer him up afterward, and he wonders how much they all know. Still, it feels a little nice to be cared about, no matter how much it annoys him.

As the year progresses, he finds that Claude is a nuisance, although not nearly as bad as Sylvain is...as Sylvain used to be. Lysithea bakes him cake, and Leonie spars with him. Fighting the Professor reminds him of fighting Glenn, and it all feels so familiar.

And then war breaks out, and everything goes to shit.

Dimitri is killed, and his father is more concerned with the lack of body than he is with his own territory. He’s so desperate to find out if Dimitri is truly gone. But why is that surprising? After all, Felix has always been a second choice. A second choice to Glenn, a second choice to DImitri. A second choice as a son, an heir, a friend. The only person he had never been one too was Sylvain, but he was three years gone by now. Probably not even alive.

Fraldarius territory fairs well, but Gautier does not. With Elena, (crestless, much to Felix’s eternal pleasure, and the Margrave’s absolute dismay) and a no heir who can wield The Lance of Ruin, they’ve been struggling. Felix tries not to take some comfort in that. If his entire world is going to fall apart, at least the Margrave’s will too. Maybe he’ll be able to steal away his daughter before that happens (she reminds him too much of Sylvain, that unapologetic laugh, and head of bright red hair).

The years pass, Felix finds himself growing more and more distant, until finally almost five years after the start of the war, he drags himself to Garreg Mach.

Claude is there, and so is the rest of his class. The professor too. 

Months pass, as do battles, and the war starts to turn tides. Dimitri isn’t dead, and then is, but they’ll win. Probably.

And then Claude reads about the legend of Saint Macuil, and remembers one about a Great Beast that came from across the sea. Of course, he drags them all the Sreng.


	3. Chapter 3

They’re battling thieves, when the other group arrives. Sylvain is sticking close to Macuil, fighting off those who get too close with magic, and a lance if they get even closer than that.

His old mare has long since been retired, but the horse he’s riding now, a Stallion native to the Sreng region, fits his purposes well, but isn’t that great in sandy combat.Oh well, he’s good enough on his feet that he can make do.

The other group is advancing, but he trusts his comrades enough not to falter, that is until he almost gets pierced with an arrow.

He spins around to see a man on a wyvern, bow in hand and aimed directly at Sylvain. He throws a spell, Ragnarok, at him, and tries to manoeuvre out of the way. This new group seems to also be taking care of the thieves, probably because they want whatever they took.

Everybody is a fucking thief apparently.

The battlefield is hectic, he sees friends being shot down by arrows, or magic, but Sylvain has never been one to quake with fear. 

Rounding a pillar, he sees something that stops him in his tracks.

There’s a  _ different  _ man on a  _ different  _ wyvern who takes a swing at him, lance shining against the sun.

That in itself is enough to give Sylvain pause, because the man attacking his friend is wielding what he’s come to recognize very quickly as a Saint’s Relic. Partnered with his green hair, and, well... fuck.

He isn’t sure which he's looking at, but Macuil doesn’t seem very concerned with the fact his... brother? Egg mate? Is fighting  _ against  _ him, so he supposes the saint doesn’t really care.

Somehow, this group has almost managed to take out all of them, and for once, Sylvain has a small twinge of fear. He doesn’t really want to die here, but he will if he has to. He owes Macuil, The Windcaller, for teaching him all he’s come to know. May as well die for him too.

He spots a mage, white haired and powerful, nearby. There’s nobody around her, and Sylvain knows he can take a couple spells if it means cutting at least  _ one  _ of them down. 

She isn’t even paying attention to him. It should be easy-

“Lysithea!” a voice calls, and suddenly there’s a body in front of him. No, not just a body, a  _ sword. _

His lance bounces back, and he’s readying another strike, when his brain processes what he’s seeing. Or rather, who.

The man in front of him seems to come to the realization at the same time he does, because they both fucking  _ freeze. _

“S-Sylvain?” Felix asks, sounding like he’s in complete shock. Which honestly, Sylvain can relate too.

Suddenly, everybody is looking at them. Including Macuil.

“Wait,” says the archer on the Wyvern. “Sylvain as in your childhood friend that ran away,  _ Sylvain _ ?” he asks, glancing between the two of them.

“Well, this is awkward,” a redheaded bow knight says from further away. Yeah, yeah it is.

Nobody fucking moves.

“Uh,” Sylvain begins, relaxing ever so slightly. “Hey Felix.” Fuck, his mouth feels like its full of cotton balls. Is this a panic attack? He thinks its a panic attack.

The green haired Saint flies forwards, although not to Sylvain. Instead, he’s looking to Macuil.

“Are these your companions?” The Windcaller asks.

“They are indeed,” the man replies. And then quieter, says something the rest cannot hear. 

There’s a beat of silence.“I will not assist you. I have lived apart from the world of man, which disgusts me so. This war disgusts me also.” Macuil replies.

“I thought you might say as much, that is regrettable,” he says. He looks like he’s about to attack.

“But,” Macuil says, “there may yet be one who is willing to join you.” And suddenly he’s looking at Sylvain.

“Son of Gautier,” says that unnatural voice from behind him.

He can’t decide whether he should look away from Felix or not. They both still have weapons in hand, even if they aren't actively fighting each other. He cringes, deciding fuck it, may as well face him. If Felix is gonna stab him in the back, he’d deserve it.

“It’s Sylvain,” he reminds him, as if he hasn't been called by his first name for years now. Everybody is silent, listening intently.

“You were asked, four years ago,” The Windcaller begins, “if you’d go back to your people. You said you didn’t know.” It isn’t a question, but he knows what's being implied.

He glances back, and meets Felix’s eyes. 

“I think I do now.”

* * *

The trip back to Alliance territory, with the end goal of Garreg Mach, is awkward. Sylvain had spent his entire childhood with the knowledge that he’d one day attend the officers academy there. Of course, that all changed when he left. It feels weird now, to be going back to Fodlan. He’s been gone for almost a decade at this point, and there’s something bittersweet about returning.

Everybody seems a little unsure of him, which is fair. He’s unsure of them as well after all. Although they do have the decency to catch him up on what the fuck is actually going on. Not just the surface things either, but the intricacies of it. Claude, who is apparently the leader of the Alliance even though Sylvain has  _ never _ heard of him, pulls him aside and drills him for information. Macuil didn’t say not to tell them anything, and he really doesn't care for secrets anymore, so he tells them.

He at least has the decency not to out the two Saints traveling with them, Cichol and Cethlean he guesses, but Rhea, or Seiros rather, has no such luck.

“So you’re telling me,” Claude says, sitting in a cabin of the ship they’re on. “That Lady Rhea is actually Saint Seiros,  _ and _ the Immaculate One?”

The mint haired woman, who Sylvain is pretty sure is the only light green haired person he’s met that  _ isn’t _ a saint, stares at him. It’s a little unnerving, although not nearly as much as talking to Macuil was at first. He’ll get used to it.

“Yes,” Sylvain replies. “She took the name Seiros after Nemesis stole the bones of the Goddess, and made them into a weapon that he used to slaughter those living in Zanado.” He nods to the sword the woman, that they all called Professor, has at her side.

“So Teach is what,” he begins, “wielding the bones of the Goddess?”

“Probably her spine, to be specific,” Sylvain replies, which okay not the best response but fuck it. He’s exhausted, and hungry, and tired of explaining the unbelievable. He’s also pretty sure he’s going to get wrecked by some Saint when he’s done here, but whatever, Wouldn’t be the first time one called him a fucking idiot.

Eventually they let him go, probably to debate amongst themselves. The man, Seteth, makes eye contact with him. The question silent but obvious. He shakes his head, hoping to get across what he means to say. That they’re still safe, he didn’t tell them. Although, Claude seems smart enough to figure it out pretty quickly.

Claude drags him to dinner with everybody, and has him tell stories from Sreng. He says he wants to tear down the walls between Fodlan and the rest of the world, which honestly Sylvain can get behind. 

Of course, he ends up sitting across from Felix, which he has no doubt is completely planned. 

They eat in silence, after Sylvain manages to get through a couple old stories. It’s awkward, knowing that he left Felix at his most vulnerable. There’s guilt, long standing grief. He wants to talk to him, wants to say something,  _ anything _ , but he can’t think of the words.  _ ‘I’m sorry’  _ doesn’t begin to cut it.

Surprisingly, it’s Felix who speaks first. 

“I killed Miklan.”

It’s a statement, one leaving no room for questions. Sylvain feels his fork drop from his fingers in shock, as his brain tries to process what was actually just said.

_ Bruises, broken bones. “I fell”, threats and tears. “Please, I’m sorry. Please stop”- _

_ Fingernails broken and bloody, trying to drag himself out of the well, the darkness above him taunting as he screams, voice hoarse, he tastes blood- _

_ Freezing, alone, dark, cold. He can’t feel his limbs, crying it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, abandoned, lost. Left on the mountain- _

“I stabbed him through with my sword,” Felix continues. He’s watching him, not breaking eye contact. Sylvain knows how much he hates it, he’s always hated it.

His mouth is suddenly dry, but he forces the words out anyways. The wave of gratitude, because Miklan is  _ gone.  _ “Thank you.”


End file.
